The horses had been in for a few days because of the rain we've been getting this week. As a result, they were all freakish at turn out yesterday, dancing all the way to pasture as if they were 2 year old race horses, not the 13 to 26 year old Geritol jumpers that they are.
When released from their lead ropes they'd all canter out to mid pasture, drop, roll, race around a little more, buck with all four feet off the ground and then gradually put their heads down to graze. Everything was actually fairly predictable until Czar Bobbie, the tiniest terror of all, was turned out.
At first, he too dropped, rolled and bucked. However, after his final leap, he took off like a turbo charged Secretariat chasing the other horses around his personal killing field like he were an evil barbarian Hun looking for the fresh peasant kill.
The other horses on typical day would be spooked by as little as deer, kites, umbrellas or a Republican landslide election (Yes, horses, by nature are very liberal creatures). However, this time the fear was more primal as if they were the antelope being hunted by the "mini me" lion.
McGuiver would have defused the Bobbie bomb with some chewing gum and dental floss. However, his services weren't needed here. After 15 minutes or so, an uneasy calm returned to pasture.
Unfortunately, you never know when the angelic creatures of calm will return to the wild beasts of turmoil. We often have talked about having a bucket of grain in clear box by the pasture with a sign that said, "For emergency break glass. Hurl grain towards the little one."
We've all survived another day.